


Ceaseless Tide

by junkienicky



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Childhood Memories, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Gunshot Wounds, Mild Sexual Content, Post-Bleed Out, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-21 14:34:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17644631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junkienicky/pseuds/junkienicky
Summary: Believing no such word as "liberty" would exist for her person again, it was beyond surreal that she’d escaped the Damocles’ sword of twenty-five fucking years, only to end up back in Bridget’s arms.Close. Happy. Everything moulded together just how it should be. How it could always be.Mostly.





	Ceaseless Tide

**Author's Note:**

> **Author's Note:** Franky and Bridget dealing with the aftermath of Mike Pennisi is something I wanted to explore, and this is what I ended up with. Huge shout out to Lutefiskfisk for your continued guidance and support! Enjoy.

Franky had always been an early bird. She arose when the sun had barely made its immanent mark in the sky. She stood at the ledge of her rain-scattered, bright or frosted bedroom window when the tint of orange splashed its way across the horizon at the break of dawn.

At age ten, it would stem from excitement; boastful and hopeful innocence in name of the anticipation and prospect of opening the front door to see her father stood there. A warm, inviting smile on his face and the strings of a kite in his hands. Her memory may have eventually blurred because to her knowledge, that must have actually only happened once or twice.

At fifteen, she didn’t await anything other than a strenuous day filled with dickheads in her foster home she couldn’t stand to be around. The LED clock wouldn’t even have flicked 7:00AM before she hefted herself out of bed with a grunt and an intent to wolf down breakfast, dodge her social workers and make her way out of there as hastily as possible without so much as muttering a word to anyone.

At a little over sixteen, Franky, without argument, was carted off to a halfway house to fend for her own wellbeing and goods. Aaron Salzah, or nicknamed as ‘Salad’ by the household, the crackhead that slept only two doors down, would grant her an insufferable amount of sleep due to his consistent pounding and mutterings all through the night. So even if she felt like owing herself a lie-in the following morning –the sooner she escaped the thought of getting shivved in her sleep, the better.

It was by that point, as a result of tight curfews and low income, that she’d begun to teach herself to cook. Small dishes at first, nothing too difficult or overly praiseworthy. It beat slurping down Pot Noodles, beans on toast and McDonald’s every fucking day, three times a day. It began from boredom at first. Just something to do, to pass the time, to set herself to commit to something that wasn’t just her prat-of-a-boyfriend she only found herself with by believing that was what the world just expected of her. She hadn’t had it easy. But she was no different from everyone else – that’s what the people in social services told her. _Well,_ _fuck that,_ she’d found herself believing as she got older, wiser, and gained her mistrust in the world. _I’m no different from everyone else, except mummy drank too much last night and trashed the house up. Mummy went too far and left big, bubbly burns and patchy purple bruises on your skin because she’d long since lost the fucking plot, even before daddy went away._

 _When life gives you lemons, you make lemonade._ That was the prophecy. And that’s what she took. Because it was shit, and it did suck, and she did have as little as what you would give only to the birds and bees, so she gathered what she had and made do. It was all either to please herself or settle the vessel of rage that was kept bottled up inside her, ready to shatter and burst at any minute. For a couple of years, that worked out rather well.

By twenty-one, after channelling her childhood anger into her favourite hobby, Franky was able to master many to most of the particularly difficult dishes to nail. Soufflé, sauce béarnaise, beef wellington. Including the not-so-tricky dishes such as tempura vegetables. She never thought much of it. Not until a participation advert for a reality cooking show hosted by one of the country’s top chefs, Michael Pennisi, flashed on her telly screen. Without much thought, she applied. Attached her CV, typed a meaningless 200 words on why she should be accepted and that was that. The brunette had near enough forgotten about the whole thing until the phone call rang in her pocket a month later, confirming her place as one of 14 cooks.

Franky found herself in early mornings once again, not long after the confirmation of her position. The place was brimmed with rowdy producers and on-set camera people ranting and rushing about, skimming the risk assessments to just get back on air as fast as inhumanly possible. It hadn’t started out too bad - fun even. She’d won the breakfast round in the first week (she knew those fucking caramelised onions and sweet potatoes were the shit), and, ever so smugly, careful not to oversize her ego, she believed she was set out on a track to win.

As the competition intensified, however, shit started heating up and a temper had began simmering beneath the surface within her. Mike had sought out the limits that would – in his words – make smashing television. He abused the knowledge he had of Franky’s anger issues and began crossing that line a little too much at the end of his luck, only to receive a furious flare that flashed in her eyes. A puff of her cheeks when he prodded her to get back to her station. A twitch in her ghost-like expression when he pushed her nose in it that tiny bit extra for his own diabolical satisfaction. He’d long since finished actually _professionally_ critiquing her food and had kept her around for the ratings. As well as the main and most infuriating reason – his amusement.

One day, that delicate silk line had been crossed when Mike had decided to specifically target and proclaim her as just some ditzy, unfocused, plebeian, unintelligent bitch. The demeaning, patronising tenor in his voice threaded a radical amount of tension to her trembling fists. Franky had attempted keeping herself level-headed for a second, as she lent onto the worktop and wiped her hand along her chin. But the volcano had erupted. Without considering any form of consequence, she’d swooped a tight right hook square into Mike’s face before he even registered his name in his ears. Crimson streaming from his nose didn’t satisfy the brunette, so with one more fist locking into the side of his temple, Michael sacked down, bashing his head on the countertop in the fall. In the moment, Franky couldn’t recall if the sound of hissing had emitted from between her teeth or from the piping, sizzling hot oil that bubbled about in the pan on her station. Her mind had raced, a fire had ignited in her chest and, again, without thought, her hands were on the handle of that pan before she was throwing its contents on the screaming man on the floor below her with hands covering his face.

In prison, early mornings weren’t exactly the privilege of her choice. To beat shower queues, she’d have to be out of her bunk by 5:30AM sharp. To beat phone queues, at least before obtaining her Top Dog title, she’d have to be out of her bunk by 7:00AM at the latest. After she’d been assigned to the kitchen, Franky had never recalled sleeping a minute past 4:30AM before parole. Some days she wouldn’t sleep at all, although that was an entirely different story.

After Franky had been dragged through the hellhole by her ankles and plummeted back down into the freedom she'd so much as kissed goodbye to with salty tears, believing no such word as "liberty" would exist for her person again, it was beyond surreal that she’d escaped the Damocles’ sword of twenty-five fucking years, only to end up back in Bridget’s arms.

Close. Happy. Everything moulded together just how it should be. How it could always be.

 

_Mostly._

 

Sometimes she felt like she’d died and nothing was actually there. Just ghosts of what they could have been, and when it all felt a little bit too perfect and ideal, she’d panic with stress that within a second, it would all be vigorously snatched from her grasp, and this time, she’d wither up and die for real. It had happened once, and it could somehow happen again.

There were nasty streaks and habits she’d grown out of from her own personal interest to evolve into an improved person – break the shell that her childhood had coated her in and find that little girl that had got lost all those years ago. She gave extra caution to ensure there was absolutely _nothing_ that could fuck over her life again, and worked bloody hard to break the violent, ex-crim stigma that emitted from strangers’ eyes when they came into mild contact, from conjectured glares, to scowls as they walked on by.

So, yes. Franky had become a different person for the better, and it was her proudest achievement. But out of the mould the circumstances of her childhood world had built around her -, she found she would always be an early riser.

* * *

Franky had awoken even before the sound of her alarm today. It was the chirping of birds phasing into her hearing that she registered first, as her eyes fluttered open to the ceiling fan. She took it as an opportunity to push the covers away from her, press a kiss to Bridget’s sleeping temple and head to the kitchen for a quick bite. The air at this time of the year on clear mornings like this was never too clammy or humid, Franky considered, then quickly grabbed her running gear to take a breath of open space and fresh air.

She arrived home, an hour later, and made her way straight for the shower. The brunette had overworked a little, she noted, recognising the pull of tension shooting across her right shoulder blade. _Bloody typical_. After drying off and slipping into some comfy clothing, she found herself at the door frame of the bedroom. Franky smiled warmly upon the sight as she leaned her posture against the door. The blonde was still snoozing on her stomach softly -, sprawled out in the bed they shared with the sheets half covering her form. It was funny how she always slid under the sheets to sleep on her back and would always end up on her front in the morning. Her hair was muddled on the padded pillow that was wedged under her head and the brunette wondered how someone could possibly look so elegantly peaceful. So blissful. She looked so beautiful. Franky wondered if Bridget often awoke in shifts at night and gazed at her the same way. She pushed aside her mild anguish and almost felt guilty for her intent to disturb Bridget.

With caution, Franky tiptoed over and climbed onto the bed -, knees sinking into the mattress as she stealthily crawled closer. A smirk crossed her face and she gently shook the blonde by her shoulders, emitting a grumble from the woman below her. “Hey, sleepy head,” Franky smiled, the tips of her dampened hair tickling the back of Bridget’s neck. “It’s like nearly quarter-to-ten. You getting up?”

“Mmh.” So, that was a decline, Franky believed, and slid off the covers in a huff. She stood up, her figure looming over the blonde, still eying her up with pity and a tad of sulkiness.

“Gidge, come on, I wanna do something with you, it’s a Saturday. We had a lazy day last week,” Franky grumbled and shook the blonde more firmly this time.

With another inaudible response, a lightbulb hit the ex-con, and with one fast tug, she ripped the covers away from a suddenly alert Bridget.

“Franky, what the fuck!?” The blonde’s voice croaked with a thickness of sleep and drowsiness crossing her tone. Although she was wearing a simple vest and pair of underwear, her skin felt naked and exposed to the cool air that spilled down from the fan. Her eyes strained open to meet Franky’s -, whose own flicked down to the piece of fabric covering Bridget’s private area. 

The brunette licked the corner of her mouth and cocked a brow. “You’re wearing my underwear again?” She regarded the skinny piece of black fabric with a scheming look cast on her face.

“So what?” Bridget responded cockily. She attempted to re-arrange herself and obtain a near-satisfactory position for her to sleep in.

“Nuh-uh!” the brunette protested. “I don’t think so, pillow princess.”

“Pillow pri-? Piss off.”

Franky chuckled throatily at the blonde’s protest. They were near enough equals when it came to the bedroom, but neither could deny that Franky usually began as the dominant one.

She leaned in closer to Bridget -, her hot breath touching the lobe of her ear as she hummed, “You know, I’m going to have to do something about you stealing my underwear all the time.”

“Like what?” Bridget teased, a playful smirk now embarked on her lips.

 _God,_ a breathless thought cropped to Franky’s mind, ignoring the surge of arousal she began to feel.

 _“Oh, like what?”_ She climbed back atop the bed, straddled her girlfriend’s waist and wriggled her fingers along the skin of her neck. The blonde screeched in agony, and Franky joyfully laughed, too, as the woman beneath her kicked her feet and wailed aloud. She _hated_ being tickled.

“Come on, get ‘em off!” she beamed -, her fingers tickling a path to her creamy stomach beneath the fabric.

“Franky, _no!_ ” Bridget squealed for release as her voice became desperate through breathy laughs that escaped her lips.

The brunette was about to give in, until the joyous smile was wiped clean from her face. She gave a loud, painful yelp and sprung back from Bridget’s waist and onto her bum. Her face scrunched tightly in agony. A hideous wave of hot pain flashed from her shoulder to her chest.

Within an instant, a panicked Bridget shot up and leaned closer to Franky. Nervous that she’d played too rough, she glanced in scrutiny to where the brunette had placed her palm. The damage, aside from the scar that had been disguised by the blossoming of an inked red rose, had no visibility. She knew she got stiffness at times, but never this bad. “What happened, baby? Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Franky managed as a mere strain through clenched teeth. A lie, obviously, but Bridget refrained from pushing and took her hand to soothingly caress her woman’s sweat-panted leg.

With a pale face, the ex-con drew back, and she collected herself almost apologetically to exit the room, closing the door after her. Bridget let her go. She knew when to prod her and when to just let her stew. This was one of those times.

* * *

Franky grumbled to herself in irritancy while she fished around for an icepack in the freezer. The pain had simmered down to only a slight buzzing sensation now. It had been three months since the rigmarole of being on the run to fight in the name of innocence, and since then, it had been a slow recovery. Both emotionally and physically. **  
**

When she’d got shot, as soon as the sound of the squeezed trigger had been made, all Franky had been anticipating for that millisecond was an intense hit.

It felt like painlessly getting thwacked by a baseball hurtling 200mph. It was the force of it, the fall and roll down to the tracks that hurt more. She must’ve been unconscious for a while in that pit of mud, because as soon as reality faded into her vision -, the sun had begun dipping, the blue and red flashes of the police cars were long since gone and a hot stickiness of crimson had spread across her shirt. Even aside from the state of her mind in the moment, it was hard determining the damage accurately when the red failed to stand out in tainted darkness.

She still had her bearings. _Something_. And didn’t remember a dangerous blow to her head on the way down. _Lucky_.

It didn’t take long for her to muster up the courage and shakily rise to her jelly legs, spitting on the ground as she did so, and feeling a noxious ripple rise from her belly to her temple. Sweat had beaded across her forehead and dizziness impacted her ability to walk properly.

Franky took her time in stumbles, careful not to overdo it as she applied a firm pressure to the fresh wound. Blood had stopped oozing out and only fell in small trickles at that point and the brunette threw up two or three times in her tracks -, regurgitating droplets of iron mixing with bile and saliva she strained to cough up. It was at that point, it resonated to her, that she was nothing more than a bag of scars and cuts and bruises with tattoos to hide the bigger, ugly picture.

After the proof of her innocence had finally emerged and freedom was something that re-existed to her, Franky applied all focus on her recovery. Gemma, her physiotherapist, guided the brunette to take it easy. Nothing too strenuous or anything that would be considered ‘overdoing it,’ which meant work – sitting at a desk, filing, talking to clients and trips to the registry –, was out of bounds. Franky strongly protested it, of course, but Imogen sternly argued that her position was secure and that she must take the time off to heal and relax. So that’s what she did. To please Bridget, mostly, although she secretly admitted that a break was nice, and time together was definitely something they needed at that critical point in their relationship. They were still working on amends.

* * *

Once Franky had found the stubborn icepack, wedged in an awkward position between the freezer drawers, she wasted no time in dabbing it to the aching skin. It was moments like this that reminded her this life now felt only like a glitched copy of what their old life was. Once vibrant with thick, heavy colours, it was now washed down to water-coloured paints. The card they had begun clean on was crumply and bubbled at the corners and Franky remembered again that this had been all her doing. Even if she wasn’t guilty of the very accusations that landed her there – she was still a liability, creating collateral damage by abusing the trust she and Bridget had once shared and by stepping foot over her boundaries.

Her eyes drifted over to the sink as she warily dragged her feet over there. It wasn’t her shoulder that hurt anymore. Water had brewed in her eyes, though she held the shake of her breath at the sound of the bedroom door opening and bare feet slowly making their way across the kitchen floor.

“Franky, please talk to me…” Bridget pleaded, and Franky hated it. She hated the guilt that simmered in her chest, she hated the fact that Bridget felt she had to beg, and she hated feeling this way as a result of her own stupid, reckless insensitivity. She focused on the _drip, drip, drip_ of the sink tap, watching the drops fall to the orchestra of gentle tics they made on the touchdown. _Must get that fixed,_ she thought.

That was until her distraction of thought was interrupted by two arms enveloping her waist from behind and a soft kiss being pressed into her raven hair.

“I’m sorry,” Franky’s voice found the words. “You don’t deserve this bullshit, Bridget.”

“What bullshit?”

At this point, the brunette couldn’t hide from the face of honesty. She moved the icepack from near her shoulder and turned reluctantly. Upon facing around, the ex-con noticed Bridget had slipped into her ivory silk dressing gown. Franky’s hands splayed out by her sides – a gesture to refer to all of herself with. The brunette’s eyes were wide. Soft and wet, but most noticeably, there was a genuine look of sorrow and sincerity emitting from them. The blonde waited patiently for Franky’s response.

“Just…” Franky started, locating the words. Her chin grimaced to prevent a trembling as she struggled to get the next sentence out. “All of this. You can tell me to go if you want to. I wouldn’t hold a grudge to it.”

The blonde exhaled carefully and took a step forward to cup Franky’s face. “Baby, why would I ever tell you to go?”

Franky looked away. The truth was too much to see directly into.

“I hurt you,” the brunette stated in an instant without fail. Her brows furrowed and her heart hammered quickly when she glanced back and couldn’t quite register the psychologist’s features.

Bridget frowned in mild bewilderment. “We were only tickl-”

“No, no, that’s….That’s not what I mean.”

The blonde tilted her chin up slightly and sighed. She caught on and thought back to the position they’d been put in. The dark places they went to. “Yeah, you did. And it might be hard for both of us. But we’re getting past it. Together.”

Franky nodded slowly -, her eyes skimming to the floor space between them as Bridget caressed her cheeks before pulling away. “What are you thinking about, hm? Talk to me,” the psychologist warmly encouraged with a small tug of her lips.

The brunette’s breath shook, and she blew out her cheeks to find a place to begin. “So, you know like last year? When I told you I feel like everything’s going to get ripped away like it’s not actually mine? Well it’s like that, only worse this time cause I feel like I’m not only going to lose my freedom but lose you, too.” Her mouth trembled as she elaborated furtherly. “Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, and it’s like the walls are closing in and I can’t breathe. In the mornings…I’m scared to open my eyes and not wake up in our bed, but back in a cell. I’m scared I might do something stupid and hurt you again, or my dad will leave me all over again and I’ll never see Tess – except this time it’ll be all my fault. I feel like the tide keeps sweeping me back in and I can’t get out, and the more I struggle, the more I feel myself drowning and I just can’t work it out.” She took the back of her hand to rub at her nose and gulped thickly. “I used to be able to ignore it, ya know? But now it’s just like…I dunno, it’s the first thing I think about when I get up.”

Some tears had spilled, and Bridget was already shushing and tenderly kissing her cheeks. She pulled Franky’s face to rest down on her forehead as she swiped loose strands of the brunette’s hair behind her ears. “It’s okay, darling, I’m not letting you go anywhere, okay? Just deep breaths, yeah?”

Franky let out a deep exhale and closed her eyes. She felt the blonde’s thumbs smudging away the wet patches stained to her cheeks and melted into her touch. This felt right. It felt safe. At home.

“I know it’ll take a long time, but you will get through it. I’ve seen you overcome so much, baby, and I’m right here with you. Franky, what happened in that time was difficult for both of us. You wouldn’t take my support, you neglected our trust in the name of protecting me. I pushed you too hard, panicked and acted irresponsibly. We both didn’t know how to handle it as partners that couldn’t be together, so we handled it in our own way. You got angry and isolated yourself. I tried bottling up until I just drank the night away and left poor Vera to pick up the pieces. But we’re here now.” She smiled, her eyes wide and connecting with Franky’s. “I’d do anything to support you, and I know you would for me.”

“I would,” the brunette sniffed and whimpered into Bridget’s shoulder and the two embraced into a hug. Franky’s hand slipped through the short strands of the blonde’s hair as she cupped the back of her head. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” The psychologist pressed her lips to Franky’s, and she kissed back pouring her every hope and dream and tear and sadness into the kiss.

"Come on." Bridget slowly tugged Franky backwards to the couch by her hand. “Is your arm okay?” Her tone was laced with concern as the two sat closely. The brunette shifted unevenly as if figuring it out.

“Yeah, it’s better. I just sometimes get these aches and pains in it, ya know? The surgeon told us the bullet didn’t go through any tendons or muscles, just broke the skin and gave me all that nerve damage bullshit. But I’m still getting all the cramps and buzzing crap. It’s doing my head in, it’s been weeks.”

“You wanna go back and see Gemma?” Bridget suggested.

Franky smirked, however, and slipped the tip of her tongue through her front teeth. “Maybe later, yeah.” She moved closer to the blonde, closing the space by pressing her lips hungrily onto hers.

“Franky…” Bridget mused, and felt her weight shift back as she was gently pressed down onto her back as Franky moved above her. “You still got my underwear on?” the brunette purred thickly into the crook of her neck, until a low growl spilled from Bridget’s lip. Her neck tilted back as hot kisses were peppered along her sharp jawline and her back arched when a hand roamed along her silk-covered thigh. “Baby, stop, stop,” the blonde breathed.

The ex-con moved back instantaneously, her face tuning blanch. “Sorry, I-”

“No, it’s okay. I want to, Franky," she assured. "But I don't want you to transfer the attention onto me if you’re upset.”

The brunette nodded in agreement, though smiled widely. “I love it when you talk technical.” She flopped back on the couch more comfortably. “But you’re right. I’ve never been great at this talking shit, Gidge. You know me.”

“Nuh.” Bridget disagreed. “You’re an intuitive talker,” she chuckled lightly, but then her tone became more clement as she leant closer to clasp her hand in Franky’s and said “we’ll get through this, baby. You’re not on your own.”

“I know,” the brunette nodded, smiling.

“Sure you’re okay now?”

“Yeah. Thank you. For listening.”

Bridget replied with a soft kiss that quickly became heated in a playful frenzy. Laughs became shared, her breath ran short and lost for words when Franky’s fingers found the opening of the silk gown and trailed down to her heated area. The ex-con gasped cheekily upon finding no such fabric – Bridget could only let out a moan.

The brunette propped herself up on her elbow for a moment to gaze down at her lover. Her cheeks were blemished with a shade of light red, her pupils were dilated with this look of need and there was this dainty smile formed on her lips that fractionated this weak feeling in Franky’s knees that she wouldn’t have the ability to describe if she tried.

Franky parted her lips to say something but found she couldn’t. A warm pooling feeling spread across her chest and her eyes softened the most they could go. She decided to remove her hand, much to Bridget’s disappointment, and wrap her arms around the blonde’s back – pulling her in tightly into a close hug. She hummed into her ear and left a kiss just on the lobe.

Smiling into Franky’s shoulder, Bridget shuffled to locate what she was looking for under the blocked light. Once she had, a peck had been left on the inked rose and the brunette drew back up to glance back down onto the psychologist.

“You’re beautiful,” Franky croaked, except this time, there was neither damp wood threatening splinters beneath their fingertips nor ghostly air between them. She smiled warmly and cupped her cheeks again.

“You’re beautiful, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Any feedback is greatly appreciated :)


End file.
